8.10.2007

Letters II

He uncurled himself from the bus seat slowly, feeling every joint in his body protest as he brought himself to standing...

It had been a long night and a longer ride, he felt.

He was used to the feeling of being held in - confined to a space that most people would find impossibly inadequate. He had spent the last seven years behind bars, after all. What, then, was a few hours on a bus.

With his shoeboxes of letters clutched under his arms, he made his way down the aisle of the Greyhound bus - passed passengers still sleeping, and the empty seats left vacant by the people who had decided to get off to stretch their legs or grab an early morning soda from the gas station's mini mart.

He was the only one leaving the bus at this stop. He was glad to go.

Honestly, he didn't know exactly how long he had been riding for. He vaguely remembered it being dark, and light, and dark in turn. He remembered noticing that the bus had gone over mountains and through valleys - through cities and small towns.

Mainly he noticed that the people around him had changed. People he had watched intently for the first few hours of the ride were no where to be found. Now, strangers sat in their seats. He didn't care so much, he just noticed. Much like he noticed that it was now time to get off.

His time on the bus made him realize how much of himself was still in prison. How easy it was for him to settle back into the pattern of dissasociating himself from what was going on around him -- how easy it was to be there without being there. That's how you get through years and years behind bars, you watch it happen to someone else and you barely realize it when its over. You take yourself mentally to somewhere else, and only come back when something in your body tells you you need to.

As he looked around at the gas station, and the stark mountains rising close beyond it; down the main street of the town where the bus had stopped - he felt like he was finally home. He had only been here once before, really for just a fleeting moment. But he had let his mind drift here often while his body was locked up. Over the past years he had adopted this town, while it stood and grew, oblivious to his feelings. But this was where it all had started, and where he knew he had to return.

The strap on his duffel cutting into his shoulder brought him back from his reverie. He adjusted the load and walked on towards the center of town.